


just two dumb idiots, sitting next to each other in the snow, unable to talk about their emotions

by nicrouleaucanrouleauintomybed



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Caleb/Astrid implied, F/M, Grief Sex, Grief/Mourning, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Romance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, made whilst grieving, set during E27, spoilers for E26
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16711789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicrouleaucanrouleauintomybed/pseuds/nicrouleaucanrouleauintomybed
Summary: His hand is tentative and tender in a way that just confirms that she, for the first time ever, knows exactly what’s going on in his weird wizard head. He can do all the shit he likes with molasses and mutters and waves of his hands but there’s no magic as strong as what the mind can conjure up behind closed eyes. She can give him that. She can give him that, a reminder of all he’s lost, if he can give her this, a distraction from all she’s lost.***Only just listened to Episode 26. Here's to all the people I shouldn't have had sex with while grieving.





	just two dumb idiots, sitting next to each other in the snow, unable to talk about their emotions

If only they’d attacked at night.

If only they’d attacked at night and gone in and picked them off one by one. If only they’d attacked by night and gone in, found their friends, and broken them out first. If only they’d attacked at night and snuck into Lorenzo’s tent and slit his fucking throat.

If only she hadn’t focused all her energy on the druid. If only she hadn’t fought so badly with her, if only she hadn’t missed so many times and instead taken her short and sweet, like she could’ve, like she _should’ve_. If only she’d gone to Lorenzo first, beaten him to the ground instead, before he’d had a chance to cast even one stupid spell. If only she hadn’t gone to Lorenzo in the first place, so Molly hadn't followed her, so Molly hadn't –

If only she hadn’t missed him with the staff, if only she had hit him harder with the staff, if only she hadn’t missed him when he – when he –

If only she had set that fucker on fire sooner.

Repeat, ad infinitum.

She hasn’t slept yet. Or, at least, she's barely slept. With the exhaustion of the last day, the last week, the last whole fucking month, and what is basically the equivalent of a large fuzzy toy bear like she'd had as a kid dozing next to her, it’s hard not to drift off even with the blood splattering the inside of her eyelids every time she closes them and she feels fucking guilty, which is stupid. She feels guilty for sleeping knowing that, all things going well, she’ll wake up in the morning and remain free and unfettered. She feels guilty for sleeping knowing that, all things going well, she’ll wake up in the morning and open her eyes to see the sky and the wind and the trees. She feels guilty for sleeping knowing that, all things going well, she’ll wake up in the morning at all. 

She doesn’t look up at the crunch of the leaves that are scattered on the earth beside her. So what if it’s a murderous beast out to get her. Who cares. It’s, like, 1 o’clock in the morning. Who gives a shit about anything at 1 o’clock in the morning. She knows who it is, anyway. It can’t be Nott because she’s too quiet and it can’t be Keg or Nila because they’re too loud and it can’t be Fjord or Jester or Yasha because they’re being carted away like slaves to gods know where and it can’t be Molly because he’s dead.

She keeps on staring as he stands just behind her: even as she feels his eyes on the back of her head, the wind blowing snowflakes on her cheek. She keeps on staring as he sits down next to her; she keeps on staring as she feels his arm brush against her thigh; she keeps on staring as Frumpkin curls up next to her on the other side. They don’t talk for a long while; just two dumb idiots, sitting next to each other in the snow, unable to talk about their emotions. She does take his hand, though, because between him and the cat she knows he is warm and real and alive, and he can’t just disappear with a click of fingers or a simple action from a cruel man, except that he can. He can, and he probably will, someday. Caleb grips her hand back with surprising strength for such a skinny frame, but all resolve melts away like the snow on her cheek as she curls into him: hating herself, hating Lorenzo, hating _him_.

Caleb drops her hand like it burns, and she’s prepared for him to pull away, to walk away and leave her wanting and desperate where only the snow can see, when his arm curls around her instead. It’s as shaky as she is, patting her shoulder awkwardly a couple of times until she’s almost smiling into his shoulder. She’s beginning to regret this whole vulnerability thing once the shaking stops because, man, he really does reek something fierce under the bite of the cold, but then he pulls her in closer until they’re pressed shoulder to hip and this isn’t who she wants. She tells herself that; _this isn’t who you want._ She knows what she wants. There have been times when she hasn’t known and there have been times that she has, but this is one of those rare times where she wants something so bad that she can’t get by fighting or thieving or sneaking and like _hell_ it’s Caleb that she wants.

She wants Jester. She wants Fjord. She also kind of wants her mom, embarrassingly, but she can live with that. It’s everything fucking else that she’s struggling with.

She wants Molly in all the ways she can except for how she wants Yasha, which is here and alive and splayed across sheets, her strong thighs ice-pale and bruised with kisses, and her hair spilling across the pillows, as she gives her one of those beautiful, simple little smiles; and she wants Yasha in all the ways she can except for how she wants Molly, which is him digging himself out his own grave just to spite her. God, she’s so mad at him, she’s so fucking mad at him and, when she’s finally sent on her way to whatever astral planes exist out there, she’s going to be the one blood-hunting him so she can kick his ass so hard he almost dies again. But she can’t die now. She has friends that need to be rescued and a head that needs to go on a fucking pike and a void in her she needs to fill with booze or sex or the spilling of blood because even the figurative loss of her father is fucking nothing compared to – to –  

She has no booze. Well, no more booze, unless she steals some from Nott, and even she's not that dumb. And she has nothing to kill, nothing to stake, nothing to rip apart with her fingers until their heart stops beating and she's quelled the thrum of grief that's curled up inside her, digging its nails in somewhere underneath her ribs. But she has Caleb. After all this, she at least has this asshole, and maybe that’s why she kisses him. Maybe it's because he is warm and he is alive and he is here. Most likely it's because she’s a selfish fucking idiot, desperate for something that feels worse than the fucking desperation. The reason doesn’t matter: it's the result that’s important. That he kisses back would be a surprise if she didn’t know unhealthy coping mechanisms and that this is one of them like the back of her hand, and that he kisses back hesitant and mechanic wouldn’t surprise her either way. She’s about to pull away and pretend that this never happened, that they had never shared a few tears and a few kisses and a few moments of aching vulnerability, when something melts in him, too, and he kisses her. Like, really kisses her, slow and deep, and she doesn’t need her eyes open to know his are closed. She doesn’t need words, and backstory, and him spilling his heart out to her the minimum he needs to get her to give him what he wants to know he isn’t thinking of her. That’s fine. That’s more than fucking fine because she isn’t thinking of him, either. She’s thinking of the press of his lips and the scratch of his beard and the hand slowing settling on her waist but she definitely isn’t thinking of him.

His hand is tentative and tender in a way that just confirms that she, for the first time ever, knows exactly what’s going on in his weird wizard head. He can do all the shit he likes with molasses and mutters and waves of his hands but there’s no magic as strong as what the mind can conjure up behind closed eyes. She can give him that. She can give him that, a reminder of all he’s lost, if he can give her this, a distraction from all she’s lost - and, hey, a distraction is what she is getting, if the hand on her waist is any indication: how he sweeps his tongue into her mouth, how his other hand comes up to cradle the back of her neck, how he’s pulling her in closer and closer and she’s just letting him.

This is what she wants. This is what she can convince herself she wants. This is what she wants that can be easily got – to press herself against somebody and bite the skin at their neck with the desperation only the grief-stricken are granted – and it's clearly what Caleb has convinced himself he wants, too. She’s seen him tense more times than she can count - fury-tense, grief-tense, horror-tense and more - but this is a tension she hasn’t seen in him before. This, apparently, is the one kind of tension that doesn’t pull him away. Molly would be proud, probably. He always did want them to loosen up, although she’s pretty sure he didn’t mean it in this way. Well, probably slightly in this way, but definitely not with each other. That it's with each other he definitely wouldn't be proud. Whatever. Fuck it, whatever. She feels guilty for a lot of goddamn things but she will not allow herself guilt over this: the tension running through her body and curling low in her stomach and pulling quiet sounds from her; needing something, _anything_ , all the comfort Caleb can give if she comforts him in return.

He falls willingly to the ground as she kisses him, straddles him, as if this is alone will make him stay above it, warm and here and alive, with her instead of six-feet under. Kisses fall thankfully forgotten. His hands remain complaisant on her hips, letting her do what she wants, give what she wants, take what she wants. Her knees dig into hard soil as she grinds down on him through their clothes, too many damn layers of clothes no matter how cold it may be. He looks weird like this, so aroused and yet still so restrained, and so she doesn’t look at him, closing her eyes tightly shut and trying desperately, desperately, to think only of this: the chill of the air, the warmth of his hands, the movement of their lonely bodies.

She’s tired and she’s panting and she’s not even nearly distracted enough when he stills beneath her. The world is very quiet. She opens her eyes and looks at him, properly, for the very first time tonight. His eyes are very, very blue. She takes his right hand off her hip and waits to see relief in his eyes. When it does not come, she pulls his glove off, and the fingers that trail down her stomach are very, very cold. His eyes are wandering like he’s trying very, very hard to remember how to do this and do this well. It would be endearing if she didn’t know why he was struggling, and also if he wasn’t going so fucking slowly. His fingers trace around her abs, his eyes widening slightly at how taut they are ( _she was a spellcaster, too)_ , before slipping further and further down. She jumps as the cold hits her skin, clothes pushed aside as little as possible, but then his fingers are brushing past the soft hair, circling her clit and making her jump again, and she’s about to call him an asshole and hopefully break the spell, this downward spiral of disgust and despair, when they finally, _finally_ slide inside her.

Caleb’s eyes flutter close again. She bites her lip, hard, as he begins to work her: focusing on that, the stretch and the slide of his fingers, the ache gradually building low in her stomach.

There’re no more little snatches of eye-contact after that, just her hands gripping his shoulders and his hand gripping her hip as she rides his fingers, whimpers falling from her lips. They begin palm up, curling to brush against the nerves behind her clit and send shudders through her body, but when he adds a third he flips it over so she can grind down on the back of his hand, his hand grinding down on his cock through his clothes and his fingers sliding deep on each thrust.

Their breathing, their quiet pants and whispers and moans, sound very loud in the quiet forest. The snow is beginning to fall thicker, drifting onto her back and thighs, and it takes nothing to ignore it, to think only of his fingers and his thrusts and the rise and fall of his chest. When it begins to look like he might come just from this, finger-banging like teenagers, she lifts herself off him just enough to pull his smallclothes to the side. He gasps at the cold and she can sympathize, she really can, but she makes certain that his cock - which she can barely fucking see in this light, thank the gods – is barely exposed to the elements before the head slides inside her and she tastes blood.

Okay. This is okay. This isn’t a warm body pressed up against hers which is mostly what she wants out of the situation, really, a warm body and a distraction, her stomach churning in disgust and arousal alike, but this is okay. When she works herself down on him, breath hitching every time her clit rubs against him, she’s distracted; when she digs her hands into his coat so she can fuck herself on him just a bit harder, the slide so sweet and easy, she’s distracted; and when she closes her eyes, hears his choked back groans, and pretends they’re coming from someone else’s mouth, hell _yeah_ she’s distracted. But she can’t close her eyes. She can’t. Because when they’re open, she sees Caleb, broken and bereft beneath her; and when they’re closed, she sees Molly, broken and bloodstained before her.

So, it’s okay, but it’s cold and it’s distant and not even nearly enough of a distraction. There isn't anything lovey-dovey about this, no attraction or flirtation. It’s perfectly fucking natural that their grief, that the way they know exactly how the other is hurting, would lead them into bed – or, at least, to her riding him outside in the middle of a fucking snowstorm - into finding comfort, company, anything that isn't the fucking cold. Neither of them are getting what they want, from each other or from life. She’s definitely not getting it from fucking one of the only men she’s managed to call friend: not when she's unable to look him in the eye whilst doing so; not when the second is chained, reduced to nothing more than a slave; not when she saw the light disappear from the eyes of the third as he choked on his own damn blood. But that she doesn’t mean she doesn’t want more from this.

Fuck it. She begins to lean forward, needing the comfort more than she needs the mobility, when the hand on her left hip wraps fully around her waist and the other disappears as Caleb pushes himself upright into arms which embrace him unthinkingly. She arches her back as she groans, deep and wanton, as he moves warm and thick inside her. Both hands wrap around her fully, now, fingers digging into her like this, too, can keep her safe and sound and sated. His whole body is shaking, burying his face into her shoulder as she strokes his hair and she strokes his face and she takes and she takes and she takes. His chest rises and falls with hers, lungs breathing and hearts beating and bodies moving together, the proof that at least they are warm and they are here and they are alive. There’s blood in her mouth from where she’s bit her lip too hard. She wishes it were his even as she grinds against him, chasing pleasure and embracing pain. Caleb whimpers, this little sporadic _ah, ahh, ahhst_  that cuts off before he can complete it: more than just helpless sound, clutching her like a lifeline. She’s reduced to little more than sobs herself, gripping his hair so tight she knows and doesn’t care that it must hurt to keep up the cadence of her movements, the pleasure she’s been devoid of for so long. 

When it becomes erratic, stuttering the closer she gets to release, his hands moving back to her hips to help her keep pace. Her legs grow weak at each rush of pleasure, her body trembling something fierce, each thrust brushing against the bundle of nerves inside her. Her orgasm shudders through her, toes curling and back arching as release and relief and regret wash over her in waves. He holds her down in that position, his fingers digging into her hips and her cunt spasming and sending aftershocks through her entire body as he spills warm and deep inside her.

There’s silence. She’s used to her face twitching after orgasm but her cheeks stinging is new. His hands slowly release her, resting flat and warm and reassuring against the small of her back instead, and she releases his hair in turn. Their breathing begins to settle. She thinks, to her absolute horror, that he’s about to kiss her again when he lifts his head from where it had been buried in her shoulder, her skin now wet with tears. He presses his forehead against hers, instead, breathing together in the quiet and their grief. When her heartbeat has settled and he’s softened inside her, She slides off of him without another word, another look, another sound, and they’re back to where they were before. Just two dumb idiots, sitting next to each other in the snow, unable to talk about their emotions.

Tears have frozen on Caleb’s face.

It takes her a second to realize they’ve frozen on hers, too.

He’s also looking slightly catatonic, which is just great. Apparently, it’s not only fire that can do that, but also Molly dying and her cunt. Fuck, this was such a bad idea.

She risks another glance his way. His shoulders are slightly looser in a way they weren’t before. Slightly lighter. She knows hers are as well, even as revulsion rises in her throat. 

She considers saying something. She considers apologizing. She considers a lot of things, including finding a nice bush to throw up into. 

She considers all of this and then discards it all in turn. After another long silence, she jumps to a crouch as best she can on slightly wobbly legs, gives him a light slap on the face, kisses his forehead, and walks away.

When she returns, having peed and cleaned herself up, Caleb has already disappeared back under the outcrop. He doesn’t acknowledge her as she joins them, which she’s both pathetically grateful for and pathetically regretful of as she curls back up next to Nila, soft and huge and warm.

Caleb whispering to Nott as he wakes her to take the next watch are the first and last words she hears him say all night.

**Author's Note:**

> Beau is a lesbian. I am also a lesbian. This was written to cope with grief over Molly and I hope it resonates as such.
> 
> This is not a pairing I would want to read or write about in any other circumstance, but grief can lead to such singular and stupid things.


End file.
